At Jason Crist’s suggestion, he and Hal Johnston went to dinner. They drove into downtown Philadelphia and went to the Palm, the famous steak house on Broad Street, just a couple of blocks from City Hall.
“At the least, you’ll get a good meal out of it,” Crist had said when he suggested dinner at the Palm.
Johnston had seriously considered resigning from his coaching position after the loss the previous Friday. Walking off the field after the embarrassing 3–0 loss to Main Line, he had said to Jason, “This team will be better off without me. I’m going to quit and let you be the coach.”
Jason hadn’t been surprised. He knew how frustrated his friend had been with everything that had gone on, starting with Principal Block insisting he let Andi Carillo try out for the team. He disagreed with Johnston on the issue but knew his intentions were good.
“Don’t do that, Hal,” he had said. “At least take the weekend to think about it. Don’t make a decision right now when you’re upset.”
Johnston had listened, telling the players he needed to do a better job as their coach rather than saying he was walking away. The two men had talked at length over the weekend.
Jason had known Johnston for five years—since he had come to teach at Merion Middle. Johnston had been there for seven years already, and since both were sports fans, they’d become friends quickly. Both had been excited when the Montgomery County public schools had announced they were going to start sixth-grade programs in sports for the first time: boys’ soccer and girls’ field hockey in the fall, boys’ and girls’ basketball in the winter, and boys’ and girls’ softball in the spring.
They had volunteered to coach right away—each receiving a small stipend every week for doing so. Because Hal had more seniority as a teacher, he’d been named head coach, with Jason as his assistant.
Jason had trouble understanding why the notion of a girl on his team bothered Hal so much. Perhaps that was because he had two teenage daughters who both played sports and Hal and his wife, Monica, didn’t have children.
It wasn’t generational. Hal Johnston was fifty-one; Jason was forty-eight. They had argued about the coed issue from the beginning. After Andi had played such an important role in salvaging the tie in the opening conference game against Ardmore, Jason had thought perhaps the issue was finally behind them: Andi needed to play for the team to have a chance to succeed. So, for that matter, did Jeff Michaels—he was clearly the team’s most improved player up to that moment.
Then Hal had gone out of his way to find a reason to bench Andi for the first half against Main Line, and it had clearly affected the entire team. Jason suspected that the only player who had any problem at all with Andi at this point was Ron Arlow and even he—deep down—had to know she was probably as good a player as he was. Arlow was faster and stronger, but Andi had a better sense of the game.
They met at the restaurant, each valet parking his car. They ordered drinks after sitting down and, following a brief silence, Jason decided to get right to the point.
“So who are you going to start up front tomorrow?” he said.
Hal Johnston smiled. “In other words, am I going to finally give in and start Carillo?” he answered.
“And Michaels,” Jason said.
Hal smiled. Or was it a grimace?
“I’ve given this a lot of thought. I’m never going to stop thinking that boys should play against boys and girls against girls. It’s just the way I was raised.”
“Me too,” Jason said. “But times change.”
Hal held up a hand.
“I know that,” he said. “But this is a little bit like asking someone who has played golf right-handed his whole life to play left-handed. I’m trying, I really am, but it goes against all my instincts.”
“You’d feel differently if you had a daughter.”
“Maybe. But I don’t. Look, though, I feel as if I’ve let these kids down. I wanted to coach this team to have fun and let them have fun. Forget the winning and losing, they’re eleven years old. Sports should be fun. I didn’t mean to do it, but I’ve taken that away from them.”
“So fix it.”
“How?”
“Start the eleven best players tomorrow. Put aside your early twentieth-century beliefs about boys playing with girls and start Andi. Stop holding a grudge against Michaels and start him, too—he’s earned it.”
He paused, thinking. “And the next time Ron Arlow says or does something stupid—no matter who it’s directed at—bench him. Send him—and the other players—a message that treating other people badly won’t be tolerated. Like you said, we’re playing for fun.”
Johnston took a sip of his wine and picked up a pickle and began cutting it up.
“I’ll say one thing about you, Jason. You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
Jason smiled. “I have no choice,” he said. “I have teenagers.”
When Jeff arrived at the locker room door the next afternoon, he found Andi sitting on the bench outside the door, already in uniform.
“You need me to go inside and check the lineup?” he asked.
She shook her head and smiled. “Nope,” she said. “Coach C already told me. I’m starting up front with Arlow and Mike Craig. And you’re starting at midfield.”
Jeff almost felt like dancing for joy. Finally! he thought.
He had another question.
“Diskin?” he asked.
“Starting, too,” she said.
Jeff punched a fist in the air and said, “I better get moving.”
Andi stopped him, putting a hand on his elbow. “Just for the record, I haven’t said this before, but you deserve this, too.”
“Thanks,” he said, figuring he was grinning like it was Christmas morning.
He walked into the locker room and, naturally, the first person he saw was Ron Arlow. He braced, waiting for the verbal attack.
“Come on, Michaels, hustle up and get dressed,” Arlow said. “We’ve got a game to win.”
Jeff had no answer for that. He walked to his locker, took his uniform out, and started putting it on. Danny Diskin walked over.
“You saw the lineup?” he said.
Jeff nodded.
“We’ve got a chance now,” Danny said. “I talked to Coach C. He said everyone plays, but the coaches are going to keep the best lineup on the field all day—including Andi.”
“What do you think happened?” Jeff said. “I mean, Coach J said Friday he hadn’t done a good job, but he didn’t commit to anything yesterday other than playing three forwards.”
Danny shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it was like he said, he realized he wasn’t doing a good job. Maybe Coach Crist talked some sense into him.”
“Or maybe he just got tired of losing,” Jeff said.
Danny smiled. “Well, that’s something I think we can all agree on. Even Arlow.”
Jeff knew Danny was right. Everyone was tired of losing. Even Arlow.